Villa America

by Liza Klaussmann

  “He’s very canny too,” Zelda said sweetly. “And…they say he’s writing a book of genius—and getting on with it very well.”

  “He doesn’t have a wife,” Scott said, hating himself for his prissy tone.

  “You’re a big one for excuses.” She stretched out in her seat, satisfied as a cat.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  They were quiet until the train trundled into the station at Saint-Raphaël, whereupon another problem presented itself: with no car and no money for a taxi, they had no way of getting themselves and their luggage to Valescure.

  “It’s very hot,” Scott said, looking dubiously at Zelda’s leather case.

  “Do we not even have enough for a lemonade? I’m awfully thirsty. How is it so dry here? I feel like a tumbling tumbleweed.”

  “We might be able to beg one,” he said. “A lemonade. Not a tumbleweed.”

  “I could put on my gypsy scarf,” she said, “and moan and gnash my teeth.”

  Scott picked up his suitcase in one hand and Zelda’s in another, and they walked out into the bright sunshine. They were greeted by a magnificent byzantine dome, the color of pencil lead, rising above a church in front of them, and beyond it, the old port. They turned left onto the promenade, palm trees standing sentry between the beach and the red, red buildings with their red-tiled roofs. They passed the Grand Casino, blindingly white, and walked a bit farther, dazed by the heat and the newness of their surroundings, before concluding that they were going in a loop.

  Scott was sweating in his white linen suit, and Zelda picked up a palm frond from the road and began fanning him with it.

  “I think we should have taken a right outside the station,” he said, putting the cases down.

  “Maybe we’ll just have to sleep on the street.”

  “We should look for a Banque de Paris.” He stared up and down the promenade.

  Zelda looked longingly at the shady cafés swelling with people taking their lunch. Then she stopped fanning.

  “Scott, isn’t that the Murphys’ man?”

  He followed her gaze. “Where?”

  “There at the café, table on the left. With the blond man.”

  “Yes,” he said, placing the face. “Yes. The Russian…what’s-his-name.”

  “Vlad the Impaler,” Zelda said.

  “That’s the one. How marvelous. We’re saved.”

  “You could have saved us, Goofo.”

  “The odds were long. Come on,” he said, picking the cases back up.

  “Hello,” they said, almost in unison, when they reached him.

  “Vladimir,” Scott began, “I don’t know if you remember—”

  “Madame and Monsieur Fitzgerald, bonjour.” The Russian said this as if he’d been expecting them, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that they had wandered, sweating, carrying luggage and a palm frond, up to his table at this café.

  “Yes,” Scott said brightly. “Look, we’ve had a problem with our car and then I left my billfold…in short, we need a lift to Valescure.”

  “I’m going that way,” the blond man sitting with Vlad the Impaler said. An American, apparently. “I can give you a ride.”

  “This is Owen Chambers,” the Russian said. “Un ami.”

  “Well, that would be awfully good of you.”

  “I’m just going to finish my drink.” The blond man indicated his full glass.

  “Join us, madame, monsieur,” Vladimir said.

  “Oh, that would be heaven.” Zelda exhaled dramatically. “We’re desperate for refreshments. We’re not camels, after all.”

  “No, indeed.” Vladimir bowed his head.

  “You’re American,” Scott said to Owen when they’d pulled over chairs and sat down.

  “Yes,” Owen said.

  “Where from?”

  “A small place. In New England. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  “Try me,” Scott said.

  The blond man just shrugged.

  “He’s from here now,” Vladimir said.

  Scott didn’t like mysteries or people who pretended they had them. He was about to get into it when the waiter came over; Zelda ordered a champagne cocktail and he followed suit with a gin and tonic. “We’ll pay you back. Awfully good of you.”

  “You’re very blond,” Zelda told the American. “Like a moth.”

  The man smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  “And very tan,” she said. “I’m going to get very tan too.”

  “It’ll look nice,” Owen said.

  The blond fellow was admiring Scott’s wife. He liked that; he admired her a lot too. Perhaps he would let it drop, the mystery or whatever it was.

  “Do you know the Murphys?” he asked.

  “I do,” Owen said.

  “Don’t you want them to adopt you?” Zelda took the champagne off the tray before the waiter even had a chance. “Scott and I do. They’re so comforting.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” Owen said, seemingly amused.

  “Oh, good. Then they can adopt all three of us. It would be nice to have a moth in the family. Wouldn’t it, Scott?”

  “That’s always a good thing,” Scott said. “Who doesn’t like a moth?”

  The American’s car was a Citroën that looked like it had seen better days. Unless he was that certain type of old money who pretended to be poor, Owen was far from flush. But he had nice manners, the way he handed Zelda into the back carefully, as if she might break.

  The car climbed noisily into the scrubby hills of Valescure. Owen had said he knew where the Villa Marie was.

  “Is it lovely?” Zelda asked.

  “It’s quite a place,” he said.

  It was indeed, like some grand Moorish fortress, with a sort of square turret rising from the top. The iron gate was open and they navigated the sweep of the gravel drive. As soon as Owen pulled the car up to the front, Zelda hopped out, landing perfectly on her dancer’s feet, and ran off.

  Owen helped Scott get the cases out of the back, and they were greeted at the door by a young French girl; she was their cook, the girl explained. Through the doorway, Scott could see a flash of blue and white tile. It was perfect. This was where he would finally finish the book. Locked away, with no distractions, only the calm of the sea below and the sway of the trees on the air.

  Zelda came running back. “Oh, Goofo, you should see the gardens: palms and olive trees and pines. It’s Eden.”

  “Thanks very much,” Scott said, turning to Owen. He felt eager for their summer to begin right now, in quiet.

  Owen nodded.

  “Perhaps we’ll see you again? With Sara and Gerald?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and we have to pay you for the drinks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Owen said, getting in the car and shutting the door after him.

  “No, I insist,” Scott said. “Soon.”

  “Good-bye,” Owen said.

  “Good-bye, Owen,” Zelda called, waving her arms furiously. “When we see each other next, I’m going to be as brown as you.”

  Owen just lifted his hand in a wave and drove off.

  When he was gone, Scott drew Zelda close and kissed her pretty bow mouth. “This is going to be so good for us,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  The Fitzgeralds had been on the Riviera for two weeks before they accepted Sara’s invitation to lunch in Cap d’Antibes. Apparently, it had taken them that long to recuperate their car from Marseille, where some misadventure had forced them to abandon it.

  By the time the Fitzgeralds arrived that afternoon, Honoria, Baoth, and Patrick had eaten and taken their cots out onto the grounds of the hotel, accompanied by Henriette, the replacement for the rather ordinary and uncreative Rose, whom they’d gotten rid of after the previous summer. (“I think, astoundingly, she’s making them stupider rather than smarter,” Gerald had said.) The children loved picking just the right spot among the acres of pines and tropical gardens surrou
nding the hotel.

  Sara had asked for lunch to be served on the terrace of the Eden Roc Pavilion, located a quarter mile behind the main château. It was perfect for a luncheon party, as it overlooked the sea in front and, to the left, the saltwater swimming pool blown into the basalt rock, which gave it the best breeze in the height of the afternoon. The curved terrace was set on the upper level, shaded by navy blue awnings and surrounded by white metal railings decorated with life buoys, like an ocean liner.

  She and Gerald were already sitting in the sun when the Fitzgeralds walked down, Zelda surveying everything with those Indian eyes of hers.

  “Say-ra,” she called out, disentangling herself from Scott and running the rest of the way.

  Sara loved to hear her name on Zelda’s lips. It always sounded breathy and more romantic with that Southern accent. Zelda engulfed her in a cloud of white chiffon and gardenia perfume and kissed her once on each cheek before laughing and repeating it all over again. She looked tan and muscular, her hair a fluffy bob.

  “Oh, hello,” Sara said. “We thought you’d never get here.”

  Gerald stood, shook hands with Scott, who looked a little green around the gills, then took Zelda by the shoulders: “How lovely.”

  “Oh, it’s so entirely magical here,” Zelda said once they were all seated. “Like a castle in a fairy tale.”

  “We’re so glad you came,” Gerald said. “Did you bring things to bathe in?”

  “Oh, Gerald, we can always go naked,” Zelda said.

  “We brought things,” Scott said.

  “Have you settled in?” Sara put her hand over Scott’s as Gerald poured the sherry. “Are you getting a lot of work done?”

  “Yes, it’s going well, I think.” He leaned back a bit in the canvas chair, exposing the wrinkles in his white suit.

  Sara thought she detected a hint of uncertainty or perhaps moroseness in his tone.

  “He’s positively a monk,” Zelda said.

  “Well, that’s what you came for,” Gerald said.

  “I suppose I have been pretty boring.” Scott drank down his sherry in one go.

  “You have,” Zelda said.

  “But luckily Zelda’s found a nice group of people to go to the beach with.”

  “Yes, also some aviators,” Zelda said, looking at Sara.

  “They’re actually quite dashing,” Scott said. “And they have a lot of ideas about valor and glory and the physical life. It’s not just a routine because they’re in the military; it’s some kind of moral philosophy. It comes with no gray shading, all black and white and hard edges. I’ve become a little fascinated.”

  “We both have,” Zelda said.

  “Well…” Sara said, glancing at Gerald, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Wonderful. Perhaps we’ll get to meet them.”

  “Oh, but you know one of them,” Zelda said, fixing Sara with her eyes. “Owen—”

  “Well, he’s not one of them, really,” Scott said, waving his hand. “We don’t really see him.”

  “I do,” Zelda said airily. “I’ve been swimming with him a few times.”

  Sara saw Scott look sharply at his wife.

  “Yes, Owen Chambers,” Sara said.

  “When?” Scott demanded.

  “When what?” Zelda held her glass out to Gerald.

  “Anyone else?” Gerald asked.

  “When did you see him a few times?”

  “I will,” Sara said. “Scott?”

  “Oh, you know. Once in the morning by accident. When you were writing, I took the car to Agay, to see the beach. And the other times? Well, I don’t remember exactly. We might have had a drink together. But you’ve been so busy.” Zelda pushed her hair out of her face with her palms, positioned herself better to catch the sun.

  “How did you both meet him?” Sara asked, trying to defuse the situation.

  “He gave us a lift to the villa. He was with your man Vladimir,” Scott said.

  “We’ve become quite…well, I don’t know if fond is the right word,” Sara said, searching. “Because he’s so…”

  “We like being around him,” Gerald said. “He’s emotionally economical.”

  Scott laughed at this. “I wondered if he wasn’t faking it.”

  “No, I think he is truly contained,” Sara said. “He’s like the quiet person you keep hoping will talk just to see what he’ll say.”

  “I don’t think we’re doing him justice,” Gerald said, shifting in his seat. “He’s better than that.”

  “No, we’re not,” Sara said. “But I’m glad you met him. He’s original.”

  “He’s a fantastic swimmer,” Zelda said. “That’s what I like in a person.”

  Sara smiled. “Me too.” She touched Gerald’s arm. “There’s nothing better than a man who likes his beach…”

  He kissed her hand.

  “I want to kiss Sara’s hand too,” Zelda said, taking her other arm and pressing her lips to Sara’s wrist. “Oh, what is that smell? It’s like a Tahitian seashell.”

  “Cocoa butter,” Sara said, laughing. “I’ll give you some. Wait,” she said, rummaging in her straw basket. “Here.” She handed a bottle over to Zelda.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, take it.”

  Tristan, the hotel’s one waiter, appeared, carrying a tray.

  “Ah,” Gerald said. “Lunch. Finally.”

  They had marinated sardines and grilled provençal tomatoes and chicken stuffed with garlic and figs, all washed down with copious amounts of white wine. Washed down most copiously by Scott, Sara noticed. It was a pain for poor Tristan, who had to carry the dishes from the main kitchen, but he was generally a sport about it and she felt lazy and warm when they’d finished.

  “Shall we all go for a walk, then a swim in the pool?” Gerald asked, standing and stretching.

  “I want to stay here with Sara. Alone,” Scott said.

  “Well, I want to be alone with Gerald,” Zelda said.

  “I guess that settles it.” Gerald offered his arm to Zelda, who made a curtsy.

  “I do want a swim,” Sara said. “Come back for us when you’ve finished your walk.”

  “All these difficult decisions,” Gerald said before taking Zelda off with him.

  Sara leaned back and looked up at the awning, rolling gently in the breeze.

  “I want her to be happy,” Scott said. “I want her to have friends.”

  “Who? Zelda?” Sara looked at him.

  “Yes. I do. And I like the group she’s found. But she doesn’t understand about work.”

  “She seems happy to me.” Sara didn’t really like confidences from married people. It wasn’t that the intimacy bothered her, but no good ever came out of conversations like these. It always seemed like a betrayal to her; she would never talk about Gerald that way. Nor he about her, she knew.

  “Well, she’s not happy. You see how she goads me. And she lies about things. She never saw that Owen friend of yours.”

  “Scott,” Sara said, laughing now. “What a ridiculous thing to say. How do you know that?”

  “I just do,” he said darkly, but he didn’t elaborate. “Is there more wine? God, it’s dry here. Is it always this dry?”

  Oh.” Sara looked around. “I don’t know. We could call for some, maybe. But I think we’d have to go back to the main house to do that.”

  “Anyway,” he went on as if he hadn’t asked for anything and she hadn’t answered, “she’s not like you. She can’t just be content with her life and let me get on with it.”

  “I think you’re being unfair,” Sara said, as gently as she could. “You seem to call all the shots. And she follows you.”

  “You see”—he looked close to tears now—“that’s what everyone thinks. But it’s not like that. Look at her with those friends and her trips to Agay.”

  “You just said you wanted her to have friends and that she didn’t see Owen. Honestly, Scott. This conversation is getting tiresome.”
r />   “You are perfect. The perfect woman,” he said, and then he buried his face in his arms, making snuffling noises.

  “Come on,” Sara said. “Let’s go for a swim, cool off your head.”

  Scott wouldn’t swim, but he lounged while she bobbed in the pool.

  Eventually, Gerald and Zelda returned, she carrying a bottle of wine.

  Zelda presented the bottle to Scott as if it were one of the crown jewels. He hopped up, a broad smile transforming his delicate features, and threw his arms around her. “You are the most wonderful woman in the world. Perfect,” he said.

  Gerald joined Sara in the water.

  “Everything all right?”

  “It seems to be now,” she said. “Scott got a little bent.”

  “Well, it’s hot. It can go to your head,” Gerald said. “Zelda gave me a glorious dance performance on the lawn.”

  “You are a lucky man,” Sara said, sliding her arm around his waist, feeling his skin soft and smooth under the salty water. A shock of pleasure still came over her every time she realized she could do that whenever she wanted.

  Zelda, who had gone off to change, returned and dove into the water with a grand splash. “Ta-da,” she said, swimming over. They hung on to the rocky edge of the pool overlooking cliffs that sheared off into the sea.

  “Gerald was telling me all about the house you’re building. I wish it were finished. I want to go to a party there. It sounds darling.”

  “Oh, it’s taking forever,” Sara said. “I think it will be done by spring. We hope. Everything moves a little more doucement down here.”

  “Oh, but I wish we could. You could give a party for Scott and me. And herald our arrival.”

  Sara laughed. “What can I say to that?”

  “Say yes.”

  Gerald was shaking his head.

  “Well,” Sara said. “I suppose we could give a garden party. Couldn’t we, darling? On the grounds…Let me think about it.”

  “Thinking is no good for the mind,” Zelda said, serious now. “Just ask Scott. His mind is rotten.” And she swam away, her green swimsuit zigzagging like a lizard under the surface.

  Gerald leaned into Sara’s ear. “Your mind is rotten,” he whispered, and she burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Scott called over from his lounger. “I want to know.”